A Bench In Cusco

It happened on a bench in Peru, a turning point in my life. I didn’t know it at the time but after that trip I would never be the same person. I had just returned to Cusco after a solitary journey to Machu Picchu and was preparing to fly to Lima to begin my volunteer placement. To begin what felt at the time like my small effort in making the world a better place.

            I had decided to take a short walk through the little town that had become home over the past seven days. I came to an empty square that still held the chill of night and sat on one of the benches in the centre to watch the town slowly come to life as the sun rose. That’s when he came up to me. One of the endless dark haired, dark eyed boys that filled the city street from early morning to late night hawking their wares to weary tourists. But he was different, so solemn and not interested in selling me anything. He had his shoeshine kit and made a lacklustre show of offering me his services. I looked down at my worn flip-flops and then back up at him.

“Lo siento,” I said. “I’m sorry”

I felt bad for wearing the wrong shoes but relieved at the same time, it would have been worse to have him at my feet shining shoes that didn’t need it for an American dollar bill. That would break my heart.

            Instead he sat beside me looking out at the little square joining me in my silent appraisal of the scene. The hotel across the way had opened its doors and some of the wealthier looking tourists were headed out on an adventure of some sort.

“¿De dónde es usted?” he asked quietly, interrupting my thoughts. This was the usual question I got from the locals. “Where are you from?”

“Soy de Canada,”

He smiled, “es bueno, no?” A light had come on in his face as if he had had a positive close encounter with my Country.

“Si, it is. At least I like it,” I added. “Me gusta mucho.”

“¿De donde eres?” I asked him trying to be polite while eyeing him uncertainly. A part of me was worried he might be one of the many pickpockets or thieves my Lonely Planet had told me to be aware of. I shifted away from him a little as I pictured him suddenly grabbing my purse, including passport, plane tickets and wallet, and disappearing down one of the narrow, cobbled streets.

“Cusco,” He replied serious again as if he could read my thoughts and was disappointed in me.

“Me gusta mucho, Cusco,” I didn’t have very much Spanish to work with at this point. He seemed to understand though.

We sat in silence again just the two of us. I continued to wonder what it was he wanted from me. He didn’t seem in a rush to tell me. He just sat watching as a little indigenous girl with her llama approached the tourists leaving the hotel. It looked a little sad to me, her aggressive pitch for “fotos” and money that was so easily ignored by most of them. I wonder what he thought of it but didn’t have the words to ask. I turned to look at him again. He had round cheeks and dark, serious eyes like most of the children I’d seen so far in this country. He couldn’t have been more than eight or nine but his hands were grimy and work hardened.

I glanced down at my watch. Twenty minutes had passed since he had joined me and now I was late to grab breakfast and my things back at the hostel before heading to the airport.

“Tengo que ir,” I said turning to look at him. “I have to go.”

“Bale,” he said. “okay.” He looked over at me as if it all made perfect sense.

It didn’t make any sense to me. I didn’t want to leave him there, so solemn and alone on that bench. My brain was screaming, “Do something,” but I didn’t know what I could do. I couldn’t just give him money that would be too easy and my polisci degree had taught me it didn’t address root causes and would be useless in the end to him. So with frozen limbs I rose from the bench.

“It didn’t make any sense to me. I didn’t want to leave him there, so solemn and alone on that bench. My brain was screaming, “Do something,” but I didn’t know what I could do.”

“Take care,” I said looking down at him. He may not have understood the words but he recognized the sentiment. He smiled up at me with a look of understanding as if forgiving me my helplessness. I felt tears come to my eyes even as I smiled at him.

“Gracias,” I said.

“Ciao,” he replied, expecting no more from me.

I turned and walked away, looking back towards him once. He still sat there watching the people in the little square, taking a moment for himself before going back to the gruelling reality of his life.

Later I wrote in my journal: I keep meeting these little boys who break my heart. I leave them thinking I’ve done the wrong thing. I met a little shoeshine boy today and we chatted—as much as two people who speak different languages can. He seemed so solemn. I wanted to help in some way but simply giving him money didn’t seem right. So instead I did nothing.

I thought to myself as I walked away that I’d be helping other children in the coming weeks but was answered almost immediately “what about this one?” 

That little boy stayed with me through weeks of volunteer work with children in Lima and time spent in Paris and then getting ready to go to grad school after. I vowed to myself after that experience that no matter how impossible it may seem, if I get a chance like that again, if I have an honest human encounter with another person, I won’t just walk away from it.